this is food for ghosts

do you ever remember things
that didn't happen?

there's a yellow room
& she's opening a sugar packet
onto my tongue, a little mountain
built there, melting 
sweet sand. she opens
a sugar pack into her mouth 
then, too, 
& somehow we kiss,
which makes me think
of hummingbird throats full of nectar.

a window's open, white
curtain, blue curtain,
a wind blowing papers off
a desk, all scattered, i'm stepping
on top of them.

i take all the lunch meat
out of the fridge, separate
salami & bologna & ham
onto plates. she's there
again & she folds the meats
like blankets. i tell her
the food is for the ghosts 
in our house & she eats 
a piece & says "good then,
it's for me."

we saw a hummingbird 
in the church garden,
no, no i didn't, she saw
a humming bird in the church
garden, & i was so jealous
i drew sketches of hummingbirds 
on the papers scattered on
the floor blown free
by the open window
that no one opened,
that might not have
been open.

she has a swimming pool
& we sneak out in the middle of
the night & fill it with sugar,
packets meticulously opened  
one at a time, the music
of tearing paper. she jumps
in while i work, floating
on her back, mouth puckering
like a catfish to suck in sugar.
i ask to get in & she says "no"
she says that i'm making
this up because i am,
i don't want a non-made-up memory.

i make a sugar bowl
of my head, carve out the brains,
the soft pinkness & pour white sugar all in.
my head, a swimming pool.
i hang curtains from my eyelids
so they can blow open white blue.
i invite the humming birds,
draw them on the palms of my hands
& wave, which makes the images
almost look like they're flying.
she curls up in the sugar
& says "this is true."

something like a mouth

wads of spat-out gum polka-dot the asphalt
outside my gym's front door
a kind of pattern forming
from the layers & different colors 
all grey-ish from foot traffic 
& weathering
car tire rain 
dulled greens & blues
once vivaciously spearmint
or winter green
or pink bubblegum flavor 

yesterday i caught someone
in the act of dropping his gum
a swift hand cupped over the mouth
& then moved down to his side
the loose drop of the amorphous
glob still fresh & white
perking up from the ground
a warm wet mountain
how his mouth had just 
held this thing for
who knows how long 
how his teeth had worked  
gnashing it's form 
& how now it lay outside
of him 
a shed organ
it made me wish
i had gum to spit out 
& add to the ground there
there's something intimate 
about gum 

i imagine all the dots 
of trampled gum moving together
into one big hunk 
i don't know why i see it
but i do
a great huge mound 
in the parking lot
the kind of thing kids
might try to climb on 
getting their shoes stuck 
& leaving them behind
a collage of abandoned shoes
i would climb it early
in the morning when 
there'd be less people 
to see me doing it

my first boyfriend
once passed a piece of 
his gum into my mouth 
when we were kissing
i was disgusted at first
but i chewed it &
the gum still had
an orange tropical flavor
he didn't mention it ever
just an action
& we kept kissing till 
i passed it back

it's something like that
what i witness each day 
pressed into the ground 
a kind of closeness 
of our bodies 
a kind of need for chewing
it's about mouths i think
i walk over the wads of gum
& feel them vaguely 
under my running shoes

to our gas stove

i return to the gas stove
all through the night
to listen to each burner
holding my breath 
while i lean my head down 
face to black metal grate
waiting to hear the soft hiss 
it makes when the gas 
is left on with no flame

a few days ago 
one of us left the gas on 
& i woke up (lucky)
to the dull insidious smell
lurking all over the house
how you explain the smell
of a gas stove? is this
how restless ghosts smell?
like a fire that wants 
to break open
like the house wants to bloom 

i opened all the doors
to let the gas out
& the cold night air 
kissed the door frames until
the smell was almost gone
i imagined the gasoline 
& the night wind 
as stork-like birds
circling each other 
bones tangle 
with wanting

i found feathers 
in the corners of my bed room
they gave off the faint
scent of gas
& i took a lighter to them
they burst
first into daffodils 
then blue flames
i flinched & dropped 
them to the floor where
they (lucky) smoldered out
no matter how many times
i burned them
the feathers came back

so here i am 
a chair pulled up
to sit & watch the stove
i say prayers to the stove
i say
have mercy on me 
which i realize 
is pathetic
what bothers me most
is that i can't understand
what the stove wants

i keep seeing 
long legs birds a whole
bunch of them
contorted & trapped  
in the oven
pressing legs & wings
to the little window
i open the door but none
of them will come out
i think they want me
to turn the gas on
myself & i think about
it for a second
the way those creatures
would pour they way
the gas would make
the place all murky
& how fast the walls
would turn inside out

i tell the birds
no
no
i won't do it

i'll wait here until
morning comes
i'll open the doors
& let the chill of 
this april night
keep me awake
as i burn one feather
at a time
just one

finally

cars with their headlights off
at night, delete themselves.

ghost vehicles, passing between
other cars, made of cold air. 

dislodged from everything,
slowly becoming part of the backdrop,

i imagine them sinking into 
the asphalt, like descending a 

staircase. i consider turning
my car's headlights off

to see what happens, to see
if maybe that slight adjustment

could alter everything.
finally invisible, finally flying,

only an underground kind of flight
below the street like the movement

of the subway, the way you can
sometimes look down at a metal grate 

in the sidewalk & feel how close
how close the shuttering is.

i walk into the basement 
without trying to turn on the light,

wading into the dark,
it has a kind of thickness like

if i held up a spoon i could
scoop the black & eat it,

a coarse jelly. i imagine
the basement full of cars 

with their headlights off, all
of them racing towards me,

only i won't see them because
i'm stubborn & i won't turn

the light on, just a white switch
a simple click but i want that

lingering, treading absence,
i want that darkness down there

to envelop me, keep me safe,
few of us will admit that

we don't always want to know the truth,
that we turn off the headlights 

of our cars & think of being invisible
for a few seconds, 

envision collision, smack of metal
bodies into each other, one body

unseen, reaching the floor of 
the basement, feeling for the switch

& finally throwing light into 
the room, the fear there.

some people do sleep

i tell you that i often mistake
my desk chair for a short man 
standing in the center of my room
at night when the only light
is that from the blush of night sky
& other houses glowing windows 
the house behind me always
leaves the light on in one room
to the left
only there's never anyone in it
& the angle where i am 
doesn't let me see much inside
i imagine it as a sun room
like the one in my parent's house
a room that people only walk through
i can't sleep so i sit
on the hardwood floor next
to the chair which is also 
a short man which is also 
me if i were a chair
red cushion with 
black slipper wheels that make 
it slide around
whoosh across the planks
of light color floor
i consider sleeping on 
the floor & waking up
to see the short man 
standing over men
how i might at first scream
but then come to accept 
his features
that i might tell him 
about the window i notice
almost every night
maybe his height would
let him see something
i never could
i would dress him 
in my nightshirts
each would be drastically
too big for him 
but it would be better
than letting him be naked 
& cold
we'd sit up in the living room
with the TV that doesn't work
& we'd make a list
of the dreams we wished we'd had
if only we could fall asleep
& stay asleep as long as we wanted
sometimes i feel like
life is working to teach how to live
on fewer & fewer ours of sleep
maybe i'm just tired
maybe that's why i mistake
my desk chair for a short man
but i love him 
& thank god for him
or i would be up alone
he sits in my lap 
i hear you turn over in bed 
& i'm comforted to know 
that some people do sleep 
possibly more regularly 
& i wonder if you notice
that patch of light 
coming from the window
of the house behind us
i want to walk up there 
at night when no one is awake
but me & my desk chair
pace back & forth in that room
to alter the light for
a few flickers
maybe just enough to catch
you attention 
before you roll
over again
dig yourself back
into sleep

i want to be a tarantula 

you tell me you've been watching videos
of tarantulas molting.
so, when i'm alone later that night
i find one to watch.
i cup the iPhone screen in my hands,
moving it away from my body,
as if it were a tarantula.
unable to look away,
the spider crawls out of itself,
like a glove emerging from 
another glove,
soul crawling on eight legs
out of its last body.
is it a new animal?
i wonder if maybe the molted
tarantula has vague memories 
of the other body's life, 
but, never quite remembers
having been a smaller creature.
the other body: 
crumpled like a coat 
in the corner. 
i imagine a row
of all the tarantula's skins
hung up in a closet,
the tarantula perusing
them, & forgetting that
those had been him.
i watch the video again,
over & over, fast forwarding
to the part where the spider
makes it's last tug 
& is free from the old husk,
the husk falling back,
the new body more vibrant,
orange bright fur around
each knee,
deeper black body.
i have the urge to touch 
the tarantula, i want to know
if its new body is damp,
if it's slick from bursting 
out of the first.
there must be a human equivalent
to all of this.
i sit on the hard wood floor
of my room
& inspect my skin
for points where i might 
fissure, where another
boy might come out of me,
maybe taller this time,
maybe with glowing skin 
& straighter teeth
& bigger hands. 
i open my closet,
find all the hangers
hold tarantula skins, 
a range of sizes.
the smallest ones
are crumbly from age 
so i put my arms into 
a middle-sized one, get down
on the floor & try to 
amble like i saw the spiders
do in the videos.
i pause & recreate how
they molt, slowly & deliberately
rising from the skin
heaving forward,
i worry about being caught
in the act,
like masturbating but
somehow more personal, more intimate,
i worry about you seeing me
like this,
a creature with eight legs 
on the ground
eight legs into two
i molt from tarantula 
to human & i cry 
because it felt almost real,
like i was coming out
of my skin & into a new one,
like the body i would
stand up in would
be glistening & vibrant.
i leave the skin tossed 
on the floor & watch more 
videos of tarantulas molting,
rewinding, trying to see
what it is they feel that moment 
they step out, 
regret? fear? 
whatever happens there,
i think it is something
that i can't have.
i make piece with that,
ask the tarantula to come 
crawl out of the screen,
tell me what its 
new life will be.

alone in a hotel room i don't miss home i think 

i think of what all i could fit inside
the tiny hotel fridge
two rows of bottles clink against each other 
when i tug on the door
rain turns to glass
glass to rain
smaller versions of wine bottles
each too small to climb inside
i could fit maybe four books 
inside the hotel fridge
if i laid the books sideways
or maybe all the clothing
from my suite case
all folded up like i never do
because i hate folding 
& i hate packing 
i prefer to crumple t-shirts & pants 
each like a carnation 
pressed under textbooks
it makes traveling feel less real
like a sleepover
a commitment to going home 
& i am going home just not now
open the door of the fridge again 
a cold mouth full of glass
i take out all the drinks 
& line them up on the soft floor
my guests
a little parade
spread them out so they don't touch
they make a wall
they hold hands without having hands
i could empty them each
in the clean white sink
just to see the pouring
just to have an empty fridge 
to climb into 
i wonder if it could lead somewhere
putting my whole head inside
the whirl of refrigeration
blue taste 
dull white glow
i imagine the people who clean rooms coming
to ready my room for the next guest &
finding the fridge door open
getting on their knees to peer inside 
& finding no one
just a small tunnel in the fridge
where i would sit on the other side
in a room full of television screens
playing videos of everyone
who ever stayed in the same hotel room
not just images of them living in the room
but their whole lives
pressing hands to windows
climbing inside fridges
the room still cold 
the walls still fridge white
& in the distance 
the ever present gentle sound
of bottle clinking against bottle
fingers clinking against fingers
taking off my clothing 
& stepping on my shirt & pants like carnations
but i don't go inside
not tonight
i put all the bottles back
on my knees
they clink as i set them in their rows
lay out on the bed
try to imagine the other people's bodies 
who've laid there 
night after night

3 different bird calls &  a car alarm 

pours a bag of feathers
all over me
the sun & the whole thrum
awake without me
i turn over like a sausage 
in a skillet, 
like the ones mom made
every morning
a browning edge &
grease softly folding
alive under skin
the spatter & crackle of heat 
i ask the brightness 
to keep on going out there
to reflect off hoods of cars
to kick up dirt 
& scoop the voices 
of the birds nesting in the garage
make lives out of them
send the birds to college
& miss them when they move away
i am a red glow & i thought
for a moment i was waking up
in my parents big queen sized bed
with the black ceiling fan overhead,
a spider to twirl 
they had a painting of two rock fish
on the wall above them 
i looked to see if it was there 
& there is someone awake
in the ceiling
maybe just a pair of feet
maybe there's only upstairs
& no sky
just white drywall 
& flickers of dreams
where we were in disney world
i think only
you all had forgotten 
each other
besides me
i remembered &
i tried to remind each 
family member 
of sometime we were up 
too early together
there are so few people
who see us wake up
what do i lose when 
someone sees me, if they
watch me decide when to 
pull myself up?
this might be why lovers 
have to share beds
to watch the other emerge
from a warm murk
blink & shut eyes 
the bag of feathers poured
over head
the rolling of bodies 
in a skillet
the whole family 
all turkey sausage links
i'm full of grease today
i ask the birds to come in
& sit with me

Lingering

My feet touch the cold sidewalk
as I take out one bag
of trash to the curb.

No one else is out there 
but me and my feet, 
and there is a light,
hesitant rain that
reminds me of amphibians.

I want to find toads
on my porch but I haven't seen on
since moving to Long Island.

My bare feet want to walk
the whole street,
a pair of toads,
soft as their white underbellies.

I wonder how many feet
there are living around here, 
and if anyone else ever
thinks about the feel of cool sidewalk
on a night in April or otherwise.

I'm imagining everyone 
stepping out and standing still
just for a second, 
barefoot, looking around
at their street
in the shimmery mist
slick on stone sidewalk and asphalt
that hold up our houses.

Standing over the pile of trash,
I try to make out the shapes all inside
and I find a paper plate
folded in half.

There is no moon,
so I decide that the moon
is the paper plate hidden
under the plastic skin
of the trash bag.

I think about what
my feet might feel like
ambling on the surface
of the moon, if it might
feel chalky and warm,
and, maybe, its glow
feels on the skin
like wanting to speak. 

I want to tell someone about this,
but it's late,
and I should go inside.

But it's late 
and I should remove my feet
from the ground,
fold them in blankets,
dark and quiet,
tell them to hold their breath,
and no be so dreamy
when we're trying to inside.

Each body part, then, seems
like an argument for lingering,
for asking sensation 
what it means for the whole,
for asking if everything
can be felt underneath us,
or if there are objects 
we have to know less intimately.

Inside, I take a paper plate
and stand on it. 
It sticks to my toes and heel.
The plate feels loose and shifting,
un-sturdy as I would assume
that moon too might feel. 

five hours away  

in the airport bathroom stall next to me
a man is on the phone &
he's saying that he only drives
five hours to find a river 
where there's so many salmon 
the water is practically red with their scales
he laughs & the stall clinks
as he puts his hands up against 
the walls
which makes me think how 
close together bathroom stalls are 
he says that Hannah never wants
to go fishing with him 
& i wonder who Hannah is
a sister? a daughter? a wife?
a neighbor?
why doesn't she 
want to go fishing five hours away 
to a river where the water
is red with salmon?
then i wonder if he means
five hours away from the airport 
where we are or five hours
away from wherever he's from 
& he could be from anywhere
just like i could be from anywhere
& somewhere salmon are five hours away 
& they're rushing into the water
& Hannah doesn't want to go 
because she's tired of all this red
the red like sunburn on their backs 
they're rushing & the water is
hot with their scales
i Google videos of salmon 
from the stall next to this man
i watch salmon
i hear salmon in the pipes 
bodies jostling
i've never seen a salmon 
in real life but i hear them 
approaching ready to come out of the sink
when i wash my hands 
the man still in the stall next to me
i want to wait for him to come out
so i can know what his face looks like 
after listening to his voice 
maybe he wasn't there 
maybe it was all the salmon 
collaborating to speak to me
all the salmon somewhere five hours away
& i'm just here for a layover
this isn't even where i'm going 
the salmon will miss me 
the salmon want a plane to get away 
the salmon want escape
just like the man in the stall
& Hannah who won't come with him
who he lives & wants to throw
to the salmon 
& the salmon want to get on 
a plane instead of filling a stream
with their thrumming souls
they want to fly five hours away
to a new river where
this man can't drive to 
where no one can find them
& i leave after washing my hands
because i'm scared the sink might
burst with their scales
spilling out on the bathroom floor 
& thrashing